Bathophobia (Phobias 2)
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson return in a case involving yet another string of suicides. Is it just a copy of the cabbie, or is something more sinister afoot? Established Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Before you begin, there are a few things I need to clarify. **

**This is the second in a series, Sang being the first, and this story takes place after that. It is not necessary to read Sang first, but that is the case I wrote in which the boys come to grips with their feelings for the other and what transpired in that story will be alluded to here and there. **

**Chronologically, this series can take place anywhere you would like in the BBC series. The only direct references to the episodes in series 1 and 2 will be from A Study in Pink (because obviously this would be after that), so that you can imagine this wherever you would like, pre or post Reichenbach. **

**Thank you for reading! :)**

* * *

The woman lingered beside the ornate railing, peering at the river beneath her. Anticipation and fear pulsed through her, coursing through her veins as she braced herself for the icy plunge. The hum of conversation around the woman faded away as her heartbeat dominated her mind. Refusing to look away from the water, she deftly climbed atop the railing. Whether the emotional stress had finally taken a toll on her or the lack of physical activity had weakened her exponentially, a wave of exhaustion crashed through her body. Despite her reputation, she had never been a spiritual woman, yet she couldn't help but send one last prayer, the first of many to possess sincerity, before she pushed herself off of the ledge.

Silence fell as her body crashed into the murky river.

* * *

John Watson was having one of those days, the sort where everything seemed to go wrong. Even the staunchest of realists would wonder if fate was against them on such a day the doctor was experiencing.

Nothing monumentally horrible had transpired; it was merely a buildup of little problems. The clinic was overflowing with flu victims, one of which vomited all over John. Dozens of patients, some pleasant and others disagreeable, whining about their problems or making a big deal out of small ailments.

Normally, this didn't bother the doctor. Or, at least, it didn't bother him when his phone was silent.

Sherlock had texted John no less than forty times within the first hour and a half of arriving at the clinic. They were random messages, mostly composed of boredom complaints or updates on odd experiments that didn't seem to have a purpose until whatever findings they produced proved meaningful on a case. John would reply haphazardly when he could at first, but his responses lessened steadily throughout the day until the doctor didn't even bother to glance at his phone when it buzzed. As his patients grew more numerous and the gap between his replies widened, the detective began texting him more.

Sarah was blatantly obvious about her disapproval towards said texting, making a point to snidely comment on the disrupting messages whenever she could. John knew she didn't like that Sherlock texted him during work, but she hadn't ever made a big deal about it like this before. She knew that he worked efficiently regardless of the detective's intrusiveness.

Despite usually possessing the ability to shrug off hostile commentary, John found himself literally biting his tongue to keep harsh retorts from being verbalized. It was especially challenging to restrain himself when the cleverness in her barbs began to wane.

Truthfully, Sherlock was annoying John almost as much as he was annoying Sarah, but John had learned the hard way that turning his phone off was not an option (Lestrade had showed up at the clinic with news of an experiment exploding in their kitchen; Sherlock was physically unharmed but the kitchen was a complete disaster). His phone was only able to chime or vibrate; both options equally annoying when the detective was texting.

Rain streamed from the sky as John finally left the clinic, trying (and failing) to get a cab. Stubbornly refusing to go on the tube, the doctor walked home, his normally favorite weather adding to his mounting frustration.

When he finally reached Baker Street, he groaned aloud as he clapped eyes on the familiar expensive vehicle stopped in front of their flat and a familiar assistant hovering in their doorway. He contemplated turning around and fleeing, but Anthea heard his sigh and motioned for him to enter. He contemplated avoiding the flat but then refused to flee from his home. Stomping past Mycroft's assistant, John traipsed up the stairs and hovered in front of the closed door. He glanced at the watery footprints trailing behind him and winced. He made a mental note to apologize to Mrs. Hudson later.

"You can come in John!" The detective called, his voice muffled through the closed door. Whatever guilt John had felt vanished as his irritation reemerged.

He barely restrained himself from violently flinging the door open. Despite his restraint, the brothers ceased their squabbling and looked up at the doctor as though he had burst into the room in a dramatic fashion.

"Mycroft, why are you here?" John inquired, all but sinking into his chair.

"If you had paid attention to my texts, you would know why," Sherlock interrupted, his chastising tone clashing with the strange gleam in his eyes that had emerged after their case with Madison Bender.

"I was a bit busy you know. I do have a job, and I can't be checking my phone the whole time."

"You already have a job as my assistant. Why you think you have to go work is-"

"As much as I am loathe to interrupt a lover's quarrel, I didn't come here on a social call," Mycroft interrupted, stepping away from Sherlock. "I need my brother's assistance." The words were all but spit out of the elder Holmes' mouth, blatantly disgusted. He waved a file in the air then held it toward Sherlock. The detective scoffed and waved his hand dismissively at his brother.

"I'm not your sniffer dog; you can't just order me to do your dirty work."

John was torn between amusement and aggravation at the childish behavior of the geniuses. He cleared his throat and reached out his hand for the files. Mycroft turned and relinquished them to the doctor. "It is imperative that you read this."

"Will do," John replied, rising from his chair.

Mycroft smiled, though it didn't meet his eyes, and promptly left the flat, though not before reminding Sherlock that it was key to the safety of London. This time it was John who scoffed lightly as he closed the door behind the elder Holmes. "Drama queens, the lot of you," the doctor muttered as he walked to the kitchen for a cuppa.

"I'm not a drama queen," Sherlock indignantly hollered from the living room.

"Please, next to your brother, you're the most melodramatic person I know," John replied after his cuppa was made and he was back in his chair. His aggravation still lurked deep in his mind, but exhaustion dominated his thoughts and body. Fighting the urge to sleep, the doctor moved to look at the newspaper.

"Dull; there's nothing for you to read."

"I don't read the same things you do Sherlock; besides, we don't usually get cases from the papers."

"Yes, well, clients have been scarce lately."

"Maybe if you didn't refuse a majority of them, more people would come to you for help."

"No, that's not it. My selectiveness never bothered them before, and I don't see why it would now."

"Quite frankly I'm every bit as annoyed as you; your boredom is interfering with my work."

Sherlock looked sharply at John, his mouth slightly agape. The doctor prepared for a snarky comeback or scalding insult, but nothing escaped the detective's lips. The slightest hint of sheepishness blossomed on Sherlock's face, tinting his pale cheeks a light pink and sending his gaze to the ground. It wouldn't have been noticeable to anyone but John, and the knowledge that he was allowed to witness the slight displays of weakness eliminated the lingering irritation.

It was over in an instant; the detective hopped out of his chair and strolled into the kitchen, peering into stereoscope.

John lingered in his chair for a little while longer, finishing his tea in quick gulps. When the cup was empty, the doctor smiled and walked to the kitchen sink, brushing past Sherlock. He touched the detective's shoulder as he placed the dish into the sink, his thumb lightly running over the purple shirt. Sherlock leaned slightly into the doctor's touch, and a smile graced both of their faces.

"I'm going to order dinner, Chinese okay?"

Sherlock ambiguously grunted, and John interpreted it to be an affirmative response.

The doctor moved to the couch and reached for the remote, the telly blaring to life. He aimlessly strolled through the channels, nothing interesting enough was on that made him want to continue watching, though several movies popped on that were decent.

Sherlock plopped down on the couch next to John, his body pressed against the doctor's right side as he wove their fingers together. John continued to flit from channel to channel until he found a game show the detective was fond of hollering at, and he stopped there.

As the deductions began flying from the detective, a bemused chuckle bubbled within the doctor, escaping his lips as the sound of knocking floated into their flat from the front door. He rose from the couch and lumbered down the stairs, pulling out his wallet. John paid the delivery boy, took their food, and carried up to the living room.

He strolled into the room and handed Sherlock his food. The detective grunted and lightly picked at his meal as the doctor dug in. The stress of the day was long gone, banished by his detective (despite the fact that he had been a prime source of said stress), the only remnants an empty stomach that was quickly being filled.

It was astounding how quickly someone could make everything better with just glances and touches.


	2. Chapter 2

**Another domestic-y chapter! It didn't flow well for me to jump into the case this update, but the case will pick up after this chapter. **

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The fire slowly died out as the game show ended, followed by another and another. Sherlock continued deducing the contestants, his baritone whispers streaming into the doctor's ears as the detective rested his head on John's shoulder. As his arm wrapped around the bony shoulders, John couldn't help but marvel at their behavior. Even though they had admitted their feelings during the Bender case, it was still strange for the doctor to be able to be open about his feelings.

Despite the mutual acknowledgement and possession of feelings, this was new to the both of them. They continued life as usual, though they were more expressive of their affection, and John moved into Sherlock's bedroom. Little cases (or favors, Sherlock called them, because they were rated four and under) were solved merely at the request of the doctor. Domestic bliss was wonderful, but they both craved excitement. The favors often barely lasted half a day, though.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to John that there was a balance between their acts of affection; neither of them were sole initiates. As Sherlock continued to rest upon John, the doctor knew that this was the detective's way of apologizing. Even though declaring his love for John was possible, a proper verbal apology seemed to be exponentially harder for Sherlock to express.

Smothering a chuckle, John looked away from the screen and down to the man beside him. A verbal apology would've been nice, but the cuddling was a pleasant replacement.

Another game show came and went, and a news broadcast lit up the screen, capturing John's attention.

"This morning, Mrs. Jones was found dead on the banks of the Thames after she threw herself off of a bridge. Witnesses say she was standing casually by the railing when she suddenly climbed over it and jumped into the river. She was-"

"Dull," Sherlock muttered. "Change the channel."

John held the remote up, ready to obey the detective, when an image of the woman's corpse flashed on the screen. The body was hard to see due to the crowd of people surrounding her, but what could be seen sent pity through John. She was pretty, middle-aged, and well off, if the tarnished outfit was anything to go by.

The doctor reluctantly changed the channel, curiosity churning through him. He couldn't help but wonder what caused her to commit suicide.

"There's nothing we can do, John," Sherlock mumbled. "There isn't anything to investigate."

"I suppose," John sighed, staring at the television screen. They sat in silence, unmoving, until John's eyes burned, and they went to bed.

* * *

The doctor woke to sun streaming in his eyes and an empty bed. It wasn't shocking, given Sherlock hardly slept and often left their room early in the morning to continue experimenting. Turning to the clock, he stared blearily at the bright red numbers. 8:15. Panic surged through John before he remembered that it was his day off.

He shuffled into the kitchen, craving a cup of tea.

"Morning," Sherlock greeted, swirling a clear substance in a beaker.

"Morning. What are you doing?" John asked, reaching for the milk in the fridge, thankfully not occupying the shelf with three hands.

"Repeating an old experiment."

"Interesting?"

"Not in the slightest, but I'm bored and I can't find your gun."

John smirked, reaching in a cupboard for teabags. "Well, there's always Mycroft's file to look at."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm not going to work for my brother."

"You don't have to work for him, you could just read the file."

"I'm not going to read it."

"So you're just going to repeat experiments until something good comes along?"

"I'm making sure my results were correct."

John snickered and left the kitchen, steaming cup in hand. The morning paper was lying on Sherlock's desk, the crime and justice section separated from the rest of the articles. The doctor thumbed through, slightly disappointed to find nothing particularly interesting. There was a small article focusing on the suicide of Mrs. Jones, but other than that nothing caught his eye.

He found his laptop under the main section of the newspaper and gingerly uncovered it. Maybe his blog would have something. The computer took a little while to turn on, but soon he was on his page. A steady stream of comments flowed in his latest blog post, though none of them showed promise for a new case. He scoured his blog for any signs of someone requiring their assistance but didn't find any. Sighing heavily, John closed the browser.

"Bored?" Sherlock's teasing inquiry broke through the stifling silence.

John tried to glare at the grinning detective, but a matching smile stretched across his face seconds later. "Checking my blog doesn't mean I'm bored."

"No, but that heavy sigh does. Whether people read your posts doesn't bother you, and the only other reason you would sigh like that is because someone made a comment about us being a couple. I doubt the latter was the reason for your exclamation. The only other explanation, and the most likely, is that you are bored," Sherlock smirked, setting the beaker on the cluttered table.

"Well, it's not hard for one to be bored when nothing's going on," John countered, leaning back in his seat.

Sherlock's smirk widened, a silent question shining in his eyes. The doctor turned in his seat, silently answering the query.

It was a strange sight, seeing the detective fighting so strongly to maintain a steady exterior. The stare, unaccompanied by movement, was normal for the two even before they acknowledged their feelings, but it seemed slightly different now. There wasn't an awkward interrupting action, usually carried out by John, to preserve whatever semblance of friendship remained, nor was there a dull dread oozing through the doctor, fearful of the detective's discovery of whatever it was that made John's heart speed up when Sherlock flounced into a room or pranced out of one, often calling for the doctor to follow him.

Their smirks seemed to fade, gradually slipping into gentle smiles before completely dwindling. John rose from his chair, clutching his empty cup, and entered the kitchen, depositing the mug on the counter. Sherlock had turned his focus back to his experiment, his shoulders slightly slumped. It should've made the doctor sad to see the detective's subtle disappointment, but all he could do was grin as he kissed the raven-black curls. John stood straight, his hand replacing his mouth upon the detective's mop of hair.

"Don't worry, the boredom won't last forever."

Sherlock leaned into John's caress. "That's not very comforting."

John chuckled, a reply on his lips when his phone chimed. Both men whipped their heads toward the interrupting noise. The doctor walked to the desk and picked up his phone, a glimmer of relief shooting through him when he saw that it was from Lestrade.

Pub night tonight? -GL

Yes! -JW

Sherlock bored? -GL

Very -JW

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade; he's asking about pub night."

Sherlock snorted.

"It'll only be for a few hours; you'll be fine without me," John continued as he set his phone on the desk.

"Of course I'll be fine. I'll visit the morgue; I've been meaning to continue observing bruising after death."

"Sherlock," John paused, waiting for the detective's intelligent gaze to fall upon him. "I love you."

"Be careful," The detective replied.

"I'm not going yet! It's nine in the morning."

"Still."

The men returned their attention to their previous projects, John at his computer and Sherlock at his makeshift laboratory, each sporting a wide grin.


	3. Chapter 3

**The case is picking up! I can only do one update per week, but once summer rolls around I might be able to do more. In other news, I got back up on tumblr, under the same username as this, which took up the little time I had to write.**

**Anyways, here's the next chapter :)**

* * *

The man trembled slightly, fingers twitching. He reached into his pockets without thought, searching through the empty spaces instinctually. He knew that they didn't hold their usual contents, but he couldn't help himself from inspecting them anyway. Sighing softly, the man glanced at the water. Smooth and peaceful, the river flowed under him, the gentle rush of water barely hitting his eardrums. It was a shame, he thought, that the water would be so beautiful on such a day.

Of course, he'd rather drown himself in a liquid entirely different than water, but this would have to do.

The chatter of the throng of people around him grated on his nerves. He wanted to be surrounded by silence so that he could hear the river, yet he also wanted to be surrounded by the familiar chaos of inebriated sports fans.

Sighing yet again, the man quickly hopped over the railing and into the river below.

* * *

"I'm going out!" John called, shoving his arms into his jacket. "Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone!"

"Same to you," Sherlock muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as his attention was on his experiments. It was, however, just loud enough for the doctor to hear.

Despite the small smile that the remark triggered, John didn't react to the reply. Grabbing his keys, phone and wallet, the doctor exited their flat and bounded down the stairs, a small thrill shooting through him. He, an abhorrer of normalcy and repetition, had never felt as happy as he did then, following the detective and his schedule. An indescribable amount of happiness had tinted the days in a hazy golden warmth, despite routine's normally dull composition.

Then again nothing, not even routine, was quite drab when Sherlock was involved.

A cab stopped beside the doctor, responding to his outstretched arm with far more speed than usual. The cabbie took a quick route to the pub and was neither too chatty nor completely silent, engaging in light small talk and falling into a comfortable silence. Once he arrived at his destination, John gave the driver a generous trip and all but hopped out of the vehicle. It occurred to the doctor that his exit heavily mirrored Sherlock's, and he brushed the thought aside with a chuckle. All he needed now was a coat like the detective's and a grisly murder in front of him, and he would look exactly like Sherlock.

John's mirth diminished slightly as, upon entering the establishment, he beheld Greg at a table in the back, beer in hand.

"Bad day?" The doctor asked as he slid into a seat next to the detective inspector.

"I hate suicides," Greg answered, staring at his bottle. "I'd rather deal with a kidnapping, as bad as that sounds."

"I completely understand."

There was a pause as a waitress strutted to their table and took John's order. Once she left, the silence continued, though it lost some of its awkwardness. It stretched between the two men, comfortably wrapping them in the sort of silence that could only occur between good friends. The waitress returned with John's order, and the pause was broken.

"So," Lestrade began, leaning back into his seat, "what's it like, being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"It's not as different as I thought it would be."

"Well, we always said that you two were a couple."

"And you were right in the end."

Greg smirked and raised his bottle. He turned his triumphant grin to the telly, and their conversation turned to the current sports game.

They weren't quite drunk but most definitely not sober when the detective inspector's phone rang. Rolling his eyes, Lestrade reached for it, grimacing when he read the caller id and answered it. His face fell, and his sentences grew short and clipped. The phone call was all of five minutes, but it had drastically morphed Lestrade's cheerful disposition into familiar professionalism and wariness.

"There's been another suicide," Lestrade explained, reaching into his pockets and pulling out his wallet. "Sorry I have to go so soon, but they need me."

"Do you want me to tag along?" John asked, moving to grab his coat and money should the answer be in the affirmative.

Lestrade hesitated briefly before shrugging. "Sure, if you want to," he replied nonchalantly, though his shoulders relaxed slightly. They left their payment on the table and hastily exited the pub. John moved to motion for a cab, but the detective inspector rendered the action unnecessary when he reminded the doctor that they could take his police car.

They drove past a familiar bridge, the one John had seen in the news the night before, and parked farther along the river, where the water lapped softly at a rocky shore. Lestrade's team was working with less gusto than usual; a somber atmosphere enveloping the gruesome in concept rather than detail corpse.

Even Anderson and Donavan were unusually silent, though their presence was no less annoying than usual. It was an odd sight to John, not just because they hadn't greeted him with their familiar moronic quips or insults, but also because the last time he had witnessed them dealing with a suicide that had mirrored recent predecessors, was A Study in Pink, and they hadn't kept their mouths shut.

"Matthew Williams, male, 32, found on the shore about an hour after witnesses say he threw himself off of a bridge and into the river," Donavan elaborated, striding up to the pair. Anderson's gaze was latched on the woman, though it quickly flickered away when John looked up towards the corpse in question. Her voice sounded hoarse, and she wouldn't look directly at either of the men.

"Did you know him?" John asked.

"I-" Donavan looked startled as she finally looked directly at the doctor. "Yes, I did. We went to university together; he wanted to be a journalist. We'd go to the pub together sometimes."

There was an awkward pause before the three of them returned their attention to the corpse a few feet away. The men walked closer to Matthew, and stopped when they hovered directly over him.

Matthew looked like an average man, though he had a prominent beer belly and, upon closer inspection, signs of being a nicotine addict as well as an alcoholic. His clothes were generic, a sweatshirt and jeans. He didn't wear a lot of jewelry, save for a single ring on his left middle finger. John crouched and peered at the golden ring, the only embellishment a roman numeral, XI.

"See anything?" Lestrade asked as he scribbled something into a miniature notepad.

"Well, I'm no Sherlock, but the only thing that really stands out to me is the ring. I assume you already knew he was an alcoholic and a smoker," John glanced up at the DI, who nodded once.

"I wish Sherlock was as polite as you, sometimes," Lestrade commented as John stood.

"Well, politeness comes with a cost; I probably missed numerous clues." The doctor wondered for a moment whether or not he ought to text the detective about the second suicide, but he thought better of it. Sherlock would no doubt find the suicide dull, and whatever he could deduce about the corpse would've probably caused more harm than good. Donavan lingered in the background, careful to appear busy, though John knew she was listening to their every word.

Lestrade shrugged and pocketed his notebook. "I'll leave it to my team to take Matthew to the morgue; sorry, I have to dash, but I'm behind on paperwork."

John nodded, and the men parted ways. The doctor took one last look at the scene before turning around and beginning the trek to Baker Street.

He had a funny feeling about the whole situation, one that frequented cases such as these where there was no true villain, and the committer of the crime was dead. The scars left by the act were deep, and John could feel the effects of that on the team, perhaps because he was tied to Donavan or perhaps because it was the second suicide in two days, and both were committed at the same time and place.

Thoughts of the suicide encompassed the doctor's journey back home, turning the long trip into a speedy walk. He pulled the familiar door open and trudged up the stairs, exhaustion suddenly extinguishing his energy and dampening his mood.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, his hands clasped in their familiar prayer-like position, and his stare, once fixed upon the ceiling, now bore into John.

"You didn't come back from the pub; you went to a crime scene," Sherlock deduced, swinging into a sitting position. "What happened?"

"We were at the pub when Lestrade got a call about another suicide, exactly like the one yesterday, except the jumper was male. I didn't think you would want to see the corpse."

Sherlock grimaced. "No, not particularly. Suicides are tedious."

"I think this one might be interesting, though."

"Why, because they both jumped off of a bridge? That isn't exactly an uncommon way to die."

"I suppose not," John sighed, moving into the kitchen to make a cuppa.

"Could you make me one, too?" Sherlock called.

John smiled and turned the kettle on, preparing enough for two. When the kettle had boiled and the drinks completed, John brought them into the living room and sat next to the detective, carefully handing him the steaming beverage and relaxing into his side. "So," the doctor asked, "how did your re-experimentation go?"

The detective's chest rumbled pleasantly with a soft chuckle as he began to describe how he occupied his time whilst John was away. Sherlock's baritone voice echoed throughout the otherwise silent flat and into the doctor's mind, banishing the exhaustion and gloom of the suicide.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sherlock's POV! Thank you so much for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter :)**

* * *

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the bland tan ceiling looming above him, his right arm wrapped around the sleeping doctor. The detective had made a habit of going to bed at least once a week, whether he slept or not, just to rest and be near John.

Sleep tugged seductively at his eyelids, forcing the normally insomniac detective to battle for alertness. Of course, it didn't help that John was curled around him, but the weariness that crept upon Sherlock was worth it. Besides, for the first time in weeks, he had something relatively interesting to consider in terms of casework.

Admittedly, suicides were quite bland to the detective, and out of the numerous Lestrade had drug him into over the years, only two had piqued his interest, one of which being the cabbie that had been John's first case with Sherlock. Though the doctor's perfectly-timed entrance into his life might've given that particular string of suicides more allure, they had been relatively interesting before the fourth victim. The first three deaths were tragic, he supposed, but there wasn't anything exciting about the deaths themselves; rather, it had been the circumstances of said deaths.

He didn't see why this case would be any more interesting than the cabbie had been. Sure the doctor was by his side, but that didn't make cases exponentially more exciting if there hadn't been anything unique or clever about them already. Yes, Sherlock understood that killing oneself was viewed by society as tragic, and yes there were two such deaths in two consecutive days, but that didn't make them exciting. Jumping off of bridges wasn't even an original way of killing oneself. Granted, the pills weren't either, but the locations of the corpses were. Why would people go out of their way to kill themselves at places that were irrelevant to their lives if they weren't going to use the environment in their death?

Sherlock stifled a sigh; he hated suicide cases. Emotional involvement was harder to dodge, and he would have to waste more time and energy cloaking his empathy. Listening to the deceased's friends and family blather about not being able to anticipate their untimely passing, with the occasional guilty person who had seen the signs and hadn't handled them in the way they wished they had, didn't faze him. It was practically the same as listening to a murdered person's loved ones, except for a majority of their hurt and confusion was focused on the one burdened with the role of being both the perpetrator and the victim. Of course, suicides were as unique as the people performing them, but such was the general air of that sort of death.

He knew all about suicide. The thought of it wasn't foreign to the detective in the slightest.

The temptation of death, the allure of escaping a world that ridiculed his differences, had been a constant companion throughout a majority of Sherlock's life. Death seemed to always be a part of his world, even from an early age he had been investigating murders, and to say that he hadn't possessed a morbid curiosity towards it would be entirely false. This unorthodox fascination coupled with constant berating, from peers, family, and himself, and the raging hormones which accompanied the teenage years had intimately acquainted Sherlock with suicide. It didn't involve thoughts of being a waste of space (such was a mere fact, but his corpse would prove to be more disadvantageous), or any such lark. A mere glance at a kitchen knife brought to mind numerous ways in which he could fatally wound himself, slowly or quickly; painfully or painlessly. It was the same with guns, ropes, rooftops and bridges, drugs, roads, etc.

Humans were fragile creatures, and death was a lurking presence few ever truly acquaint themselves with. Perhaps it was because of this that he began to partake in drugs; maybe Sherlock wanted to see how close he could get to death without truly dying. Perhaps it was because the voices in his head, constantly whispering information of those around him gathered through simple deduction, were finally silenced as the needle pierced his paper-thin skin and its contents injected into his bloodstream, rushing through his veins and arteries in mere seconds.

It was a weakness that Sherlock hated to possess. It was cliché, he thought, to have considered such things, even if he believed himself to have done so with more depth than others. It was a weakness that he knew John had struggled with just as intimately as Sherlock had, one that had dominated their thoughts, though both would never admit it, and one that had been banished by each other's presence. John had done so much for Sherlock, saving the detective fervently, and vice versa, each in their own way. John made Sherlock eat and sleep; Sherlock drug John on his cases.

The detective stared at the doctor's body wrapped around his lightly. A smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips, and he pulled his love closer.

Suicides were horrible and grim, but they did need something to keep them occupied, and this was the best case they had seen in weeks. If it satisfied John to investigate the deaths, then investigate they would.

Reaching for his phone with one arm, the other still securely clasping John, Sherlock squinted into the dimmed screen. Ignoring the inappropriateness of texting Lestrade in three in the morning, the detective sent a quick message to the D.I.

If another suicide occurs, text me immediately -SH

Pressing SEND, Sherlock gently placed his phone back on the nightstand and repositioned himself around the doctor.

* * *

He didn't see why he needed to eat; Sherlock had informed John that there was a corpse to investigate, but the doctor hindered the detective's swift exit with the familiar command. It wasn't necessary. John knew it would slow him down. To appease the doctor, Sherlock quickly grabbed a roll, shoved it petulantly into his mouth, and then hastily departed from the flat.

John didn't ask where they were going, but Sherlock felt his burning curiosity. This time, however, he chose to ignore it, opting for silence. Declaring that they were going to examine the bodies of the suicides felt almost like defeat. Besides, it was casual investigation merely to occupy their time. Nothing more.

They entered Bart's minutes after they left the flat, yet John's demeanor was entirely different. His hands were still, his gait confident and tall, despite his physical stature, and Sherlock bit back a smirk.

Molly moved beside them, rambling excitedly about being pleased to see them there. A question had been asked, the lilting in her voice the only indication as the words hadn't registered. Something seemed different about her. The detective stopped in front of the door to her workspace and stared at her.

(no usual signs of being flustered, nicer clothes under lab coat than normal, new shoes, different necklace around her neck- boyfriend?)

Flirting wouldn't work on her anymore, Sherlock supposed; she was clearly smitten. "Could you pull out the bodies of the two suicides, a Laura Jones and Matthew Williams?"

"Sure, they were on my list, I believe," Molly replied, moving past the men into the room. Politeness would still do the trick.

Molly deftly moved the two corpses onto tables for Sherlock to examine and unzipped their body bags.

First examining the woman, Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly. "Laura Jones. She was well-off, though that appeared to originate from a marriage rather than family inheritance or serious effort on her part, going by the calluses on her hands. Worked hard jobs when she was younger, something she wouldn't have had to do if she was previously wealthy. Overweight slightly, the only toning she possessed was the sort one would get working out at a gym every once in a while. Scratches on her legs indicated that she owned two cats. Wedding ring signs on her left ring finger, pale strip of skin where the jewelry would've rested. A perfectly ordinary woman," Sherlock muttered, only uttering the last sentence loud enough for Molly to hear.

"Brilliant," John murmured, his eyes shining as he glanced at the woman's corpse before returning his gaze to the detective. Pride swelled within Sherlock and, as his back was turned away from Molly, allowed a smile to tug his lips up.

The detective moved next to the male corpse. "Matthew Williams. Middle-class income; journalist going by the calloused middle fingers. Alcoholic and smoker, though that was obvious to you already," Sherlock looked up at John, who nodded slightly. "Single..." The detective paused, an indention on the man's left middle finger. He leaned down to look closer at the mark, then peered up at the doctor. "You saw him yesterday, do you remember if he was wearing anything here?"

John leaned forward, his eyes staring at the indention and widening slightly. "He was wearing a gold ring with the Roman numeral for six."

Gold ring... Matthew didn't look like he could afford a golden ring, so someone must've put it on him. It would've been after he died, because it could've come off during the man's time in the water, and it looked like the only purpose of the ring was to send a message.

Sherlock stood straight with forced calmness. It had appeared that there was something relatively interesting afoot.

"Come along John," The detective said, tossing his command over his shoulder as he strode out of the morgue. He needed to inspect the ring.


End file.
